


All My Love is There For You

by TheIronyMan



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Iron Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Marvel 1872 #2, Marvel Universe, Stony - Freeform, Stony 1872, Superhusbands (Marvel)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-21 02:08:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11934096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheIronyMan/pseuds/TheIronyMan
Summary: Valley of Destiny - Timely, 1872.Bucky Barnes had left the fight against corruption, and it had not been by choice. They chose him when they scalped him, leaving Natasha a widow.Steve Rogers was the sheriff of that small town whose mayor had once been considered a hero: Wilson Fisk.And Tony Stark, well, he was consumed by remorse and drowned by alcohol, seeking to erase the memories that insisted on being present.Everything was about to change, and some things had already changed, albeit in secret. Even if only the two of them shared this secret.• Based on Comic Book Secret Wars - War Zones 1872 •





	All My Love is There For You

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, my English is not perfect. I needed someone to help me with corrections, but it's not happened.

Timely had never been the quieter city, but in fact, it was inhabited by great men. Big names, big ideological differences about law and forms of government. And the stronger sides of the coin were summarized in Mayor Wilson Fisk and Sheriff Steve Rogers.

Many would say that government was the law, that the Governor was the law. But to Steve Rogers, the law was not about self-will. The law was the truth, justice. Things that Timely had not seen in a long time. Especially after the death of the sheriff's helper; Bucky Barnes.

The scars of 62 were impregnated more in some than in others. Some had been drinking, drowning out troubles and regretful memories in alcohol. As if the drink were miraculous to the point of forgetting that his own invention had been used so low.

In short, that uncrowded little town was always on the verge of collapse. And the sheriff, besides the routine concerns of keeping everything under the cloak of the law, had acquired for himself another task as difficult as. Help Tony Stark.

How many times has he seen him drinking rampant? He could not count without getting lost. But how often did not he stop him, taking the glass of his hand, sometimes the bottle. Obviously Stark always complained, claiming that the sheriff was abusing his power, depriving him of a simple right: the right to seek happiness. And he was not even hurting other people for it.

—  That's what some would call authority abuse, sheriff. —  His eyes still glazed on the bottle that now lay across the table. His old work table, which now served only to accumulate a vast amount of glasses and empty bottles.

—  Some would say that this is doing a good deed. My duty is to the residents of Timely. Leave them safe. And that includes you. —  He still wore the sheriff's star, affixed to his blue vest. As if it were the highest of honors, and for him it was.

—  You could keep me company, instead of depriving myself of something.

—  I can keep you company, but I can not sit and drink until I start to change my feet.

There was complicity there. A complicity gained over a few nights that Steve found himself obliged to help Tony return home after hours spent in the saloon. When he looked at it best, he could see that it was not a simple unbridled drunkenness but a failed attempt to bury the problems.

They had come closer than they could ever imagine. They or any other. But Steve always said he did it because it was his duty to the residents. But he did not feel obliged to do this to any other individual who spent the morning in the saloon drinking a bottle of whiskey, alone.

—  So how do you plan to make me company? Sit here and enjoy the beautiful decor of my table? —  Stark was already sitting on the floor, his back against the wall in front of the table, enjoying the chaos in it.

He would have no other appointment waiting for him. That night, Timely was quiet, as if for a night, trouble sinking into quicksand, leaving them free of trouble. He sat next to the other, stretching his legs on the floor. Silence had taken over the room, but he would still remain there.

He felt good there, felt good when he was close to Tony Stark. Even if he does not dare to admit it out loud. Sometimes he would deny even when alone with his thoughts.

—  Silence is not always pleasant, sheriff. If you're really going to deprive me of my drink, I could at least talk.

—  Things lately have gotten off the rails. Every day this city becomes more arid.

—  When I said that at least you could talk, it was about something nice to hear. Not about the problems that are stamped on every grain of sand in this city. It just makes me want to drink more, not less.

—  It would be of great help if you stayed sober longer.

—  Great help for what?

—  At least I would not be worried about leaving, and when I get back I find you drowned in a puddle of whiskey because you passed out.

—  So you really care about me?

—  Otherwise I would not be sitting on the floor next to you.

It was little split moments, moments like the one that made Stark think that maybe, and just maybe that was a concern beyond something simple like the sheriff's concern for the locals. Steve cared about him in particular.

—  I thought you were just here so you would not be alone at home. I think some people weren’t made to be alone.

—  And about you? —  Steve turned a few inches, seeking to look into Tony's eyes, and all the lines that formed the traces of his face.

—  Let's just say I'm used to being alone. It's not anyone who can stand by me.

—  Maybe you should drink less. So you could see that people can stand by you, but you're just too busy drinking. And you do not notice them. —  Steve put both hands on each knee, took a deep breath and paused. He closed his eyes as he felt the air drain from his lungs. He stood up, looked again at Tony, who was still sitting on the floor. —  It's my time.

Maybe Steve was not expecting Tony to accompany him to the door, as the good manners dictate. And he had been surprised by the brown man getting up, perhaps too fast, losing a fair share of his balance. Being held by the sheriff's arms, one on his left shoulder and the other on his ribs. Even slipping into his right arm, he involuntarily leaned on Steve's arm.

Tony's distance to the wall was almost nil, as was the distance from his body to Steve's. Support was something, but that was pushing the limits, was not? Tony could feel the gust of wind that Steve let loose through his parted lips. He felt the hairs on his forearms bristle as if a cold breeze touched him through the unprotected column of robes at the end of the night. How many times had Steve kept him company? How many nights had he bothered to accompany Steve to the door? Many of them did not even remember if Steve had really brought him home. But that night seemed different. Steve drew nearer, breaking every distance the line of friendship establishes.

Whatever it was, he could put the blame on the drink later. Tony thought, and then countered his own thinking. After all, would he blame the drink for Steve's actions? Whoever was approaching dangerously was the sheriff, not him.

He even opened his mouth to try to say something to Steve, but feared that if he did, the sheriff would put an end to his actions, and Tony was curious to see how far he would go.

It was perhaps the most delicate kiss he'd ever had. There was not a single ounce of abruptness or any passive feeling of voracity. It was as delicate as ever Tony dared to imagine. Because he had already, he had spent some thoughts wondering what it would be like to touch another man's lips. Out of sheer curiosity, of course. And he never imagined such lightness, as if he were kissed by a feather, instead of having it there, pressing it against the wall, Sheriff Steve Rogers.

There was no more than a simple seal of lips, and eyes so firmly closed that they had little need to sink the eyeballs into their respective eyes. There was also an exacerbated delay to separate. As if avoiding looking into each other's eyes. Steve, embarrassed by his unthinking acts, and Tony for reasons that even he could not understand at the moment.

—  I think tomorrow, in addition to a headache, I'm going to win another night in white. —  Maybe he was trying to ease the tension of the moment. But he did not know how. Did he want to forget? Did Steve want him to forget?

—  Good night, Stark. —  The low voice caught Tony's attention, drawing him out of recent daydreams. Closing the door as soon as Steve had gained a considerable distance.

He was alone again, only following the bottle of whiskey on his desk. Or at least that should be on the table. Steve had put the bottle there, had not?

—  But where did it go?

He closed his eyes, as if searching in his mind for the continuity of that scene. The scene in which Steve took the bottle from his hands, placing it on the table next to several empty bottles and glasses. He opened his eyes, made his way toward the door, opening it in a crack.

In the distance he could still see Steve's silhouette, and something in his right hand. Something Tony could have sworn to be his whiskey bottle.

—  Cheater!

He complained to the warm wind that night, since Steve was too far away to listen to him. Once more he closed the door, throwing it this time, his body against the wood. Letting his head rest for a few moments before finally letting his body fall onto a bed.

  
  
  
  


The next morning, life went on as if nothing different had happened last night. People passed by, some still bothered to greet each other, others just looked and then looked away.

Steve, at his sheriff's station, made his morning round. It was no surprise to find Tony sitting at the head of his 'prediction of the future' as if he were enjoying one of the most beautiful hangovers. He whistled something, probably thinking that he was following the rhythm of some music. But in Steve's ears, he whistled disjointed bits of anything but a song.

—  Morning, Sheriff.

—  Morning. —  The sheriff nodded, an almost imperceptible nod.

Stark got up, and started to walk beside the blond, following where his feet took him.

—  What ... refresh my memory. What happened yesterday?

Steve came to a halt, holding the next step inches from the ground. Then Stark had forgotten about the kiss. And was that something good or bad? In fact bad, after all, good things are not forgotten so easily, are they?

They were far enough away from the curious glances, and the silence was broken only by the noise of shoes slamming with sand. Tony had not gotten his answer, and he definitely needed it. Did Steve want to forget what happened last night or not?

A tree with long branches and stout trunk, stretched to the sky, partially covering the sunlight touching both present. Steve had stopped walking as he leaned right into the trunk of the tree, avoiding looking back, looking at Tony.

—  Rogers? —  Tony touched his shoulder, causing the blonde to turn.

—  What happened yesterday was that.

They were far from everything and everyone, with a huge tree covering every possible visibility that some curious could have, and trying to look. Steve approached, as last night, but with more determination. With the right hand, he pulled Stark by the waist, bringing him even closer. Sealing his lips there. In the shade of a tree that, despite the regrets, remained imposing.

Stark remembered last night, and that was different. There was a tongue that sought passage between his lips, there was also a hint of voracity, and one of excitement for being outdoors, even if protected by the thick branches of the tree.

Tongues now danced at their own pace, as if they had practiced for a lifetime, as if they knew the exact fit of their lips, and the directions that should move their heads. They were somehow connected.

—  That definitely did not happen last night.

—  So, do you remember? —  They were still close to each other. So close that the gust of wind that Steve let go, were felt in the cheekbones of Tony's face.

—  I was not sure if you'd like to remember, or that I remembered. Then I became disengaged. —  For a few seconds he lowered his gaze, avoiding Steve's blue sapphires. He felt the warm touch of the blond's hand on his face, on his chin, forcing him to face him.

Steve saw in those eyes an uncertainty, and fear. Stark was always self-sufficient and indulged in alcohol, but there he was without masks and without drunkenness. The Stark that Steve knew existed behind everything, the pain and heartache that the war had brought to his restless mind.

  
  
  


Those were the good times for them. In that city that misrepresented what was law, which was justice. Those were the good times, when the sheriff, late at night, kept company with the inventor. When the kisses became more constant, and the hands ran through the bodies covered by clothes that, little by little, became unnecessary. At every moment the desire intensified, they sought more, they needed more, and they would have more.

Against all that could be imagined, they were delivered to each other and to the moment, in that not too great bed of the inventor. In that dark room because even with delivery, there was the shame of the first time. There was delicacy against greed. Or vice versa.

At that moment, even the star who always wore the sheriff's vest, now lay in a pile and clothes that lay on the floor.

Heat, sweat, muffled moans, touches of hands that sought to caress with impetuosity, as if beyond the first time, that was also the last. The creaking of the bed delivered the consummate acts, but there would be no one around to hear, even more so late at night, when the locals had been asleep for hours. The shameless acts guided them more and more to the summit of that pleasurable activity. It was not just the noise of the bed that gave them away, the groans of both contributed to it.

Tony's body was hot as ember, and constant contact with Steve's only increased his heat. The bodies collided with voracity, the desire now dictated the rhythm, and as the desire was fiery, the rhythm was almost surreal. The overwhelming orgasm would soon make them close their eyes and give themselves to the deep sleep, like a well-deserved rest.

That morning, Steve got up before Tony, and probably before anyone in the valley. He got dressed and headed for his usual routine around Timely.

Tony woke up happily, a little numb, as if the last events were just a dream, a dream shared by two. The only way he knew how to celebrate was to drink. Regardless of the time. The saloon would serve this time as a place to celebrate, rather than drown their usual sorrows.

Everything had happened so fast. That same morning Steve had come into the saloon to - once again - complain about his excess with drinks. That same morning he left because duty called him. The duty to do justice, and this sometimes included head-on with Fisk's men. That same day he used a unique method of warning to alert Steve that problems had accompanied him there. What good music could not do. That way he had got Steve's attention. And like a good sheriff, he'd been helping Tony. Not just for being his job, but for being his obligation to whom he loved. Fisk's men were looking for trouble, now, they had. And unfortunately Steve and Tony too. After the events of 1862, Tony vowed never to carry a weapon again, and now what was worn inside the vest, instead of something useful against Fisk's men, was a canteen. Modifications that he himself admitted to regret at that moment. He was in a room, alone. Without the authoritarian presence of Steve and with a henchman pointing a gun at him. He used the only weapon he would ever have at his fingertips. His intelligence, even if that would haunt him later. At that moment he was Fisk's henchman, or him. A bucket of water thrown to the ground, and power wires. A nice way to electrocute someone, and he still suspected it would work. Even after it worked out.

It was official, Steve was playing with fire, and not content yet had thrown more firewood into the fire. One should not go head-on with the Mayor. Especially when the mayor can hire thugs like Lester and his gang. Killers trained, and with a single task: Kill Red Wolf and Steve Rogers.

One more time Stark was forced to drown in alcohol, seeking relief from her troubled thoughts. Seeking a palliative for so much emotional pain that that brief struggle had brought him. He was drunk again. And he could not have chosen the worst time to indulge in his weakness.

Steve would need him, and Tony would not be there for him. Tony heard Steve's inspirational speech, at least a portion of it. He heard him call the inhabitants out of their houses, that they might see justice come to pass.

—  I'm glad you called everyone out, Rogers. So you can say goodbye.

It was the last words Stark heard before a gun was fired. Lester had shot the sheriff. He had shot Steve Rogers. There was no more wisdom in that body consumed by alcohol and hate. Stark rose from the ground on which he lay, took possession of a weapon - a weapon he swore never touched again - opened the door and fired. He had no aim, just wanted to hurt someone, the pain he was feeling. He wanted to hurt the one who had hurt Steve, his Steve.

But Carol stopped him, with Natasha's help, who took the gun from his hand. They dragged him away. Maybe keeping him from seeing what Fisk would do to Steve's body. Steve's still alive body. Throwing it at the pigs, like it was nothing.

At that moment in Timely, the law had died.

  
  
  


—  I need to bury him in a decent way. —  The voice was as weak as it had ever been. Regardless of the brutalities I had seen in my life. His body could barely lift Steve's body and drag him out of that stye. He wore a handkerchief to wipe the blonde's face, sitting down next to the ex-sheriff's deflated body. He was alone there with him. And even if he was not, he might still lower himself and once again allow himself to seal his lips to that of the beloved. A farewell kiss, as delicate as it had been the first seal of lips.

Tony Stark had lost everything, had let Steve die while sitting too drunk to help him. He let it happen, they all left.

Timely was a land without law, without honor, without the personification of justice.

  
  
  


If people even thought they had seen Tony Stark at the bottom of the pit, they still had not seen him after Steve's death. Drinking even more than usual, after all, there was no one else to stop him, looking out for his well-being. He was thrown into the gutter, sitting in front of his invention; The 'vision of the future'. A machine that handed him a piece of paper with his future. Something so simple, but that had given many people joy and disgust. A stranger came and called. But it was not his job to wait for his luck.

—  Will you not see your future, sir? —  Stark wriggled a little at the words, searching for the correct order of his sentence.

—  This is your future, not mine.

He looked once more at the man who was already leaving, and at his machine. A small piece of paper had come out of it. He pulled back and waited for his eyesight to focus on the paper.

  


**_"The summer is gone and all the roses are falling._ **

**_It's you, you must go and I must bide. "_ **

 

He laughed. For a tiny space of time he laughed at the prediction. It was an excerpt from a song, a song that was so special to him now. And then there was no more grace, only sadness. It was the song he sang to Steve. A damn letter had never made so much sense before.

The summer was over, the roses were falling, the tree Steve had kissed him for the second time, was not as green, but still cast his shadow in the grave of Steve Rogers. It was time, he would have to go to the fight.

He went back to his house, resting the bottle of drink on his desk. Picking up his work hammer, he shattered the bottle right away. Getting rid of an addiction, to live up to Steve's memory.

  
  
  
  


They fought, with weapons and armor. Some gave their lives, like Timely's doctor, Bruce Banner. Some were extremely dangerous and skillful, such as Natasha Barnes, the widow. She finally got revenge for her husband's brutal death, burying a bullet in the forehead of whoever had him killed.

The dam that Red Wolf wanted to destroy had finally been destroyed, returning the water to who it really belonged to: the people. Tony Stark had dropped the alcohol on that fateful day of the strangest prediction his machine had made. He had created an armor to help Red Wolf fight against Fisk's men. Or as himself had said, he was wearing his coffin. Maybe Red Wolf did not understand. But Stark had buried his heart, so he was dead. He had buried Steve, so he now wore a metal casket.

In the end, in spite of the losses, the balance hung on their side. Fisk and his henchmen had been annihilated, Timely now had a new mayor, yes, mayor. And along with the new sheriff, things would finally follow the law. Above the chain, there was now a huge sign of the Stark industries. They were all together now. Like avengers from the west.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


—  I’ll be here in sunshine or in shadow. Oh Danny boy, I love you so… — The low hum, almost inaudible, after all, there was no reason to shout. It was there, just like every other morning. In the shadow of that huge tree. Place of the second kiss, where Steve now rested at seven hands. —  We did justice for you. For you and Timely. Urich wrote the truth about your death. I hope you're at peace now.

There was no such happiness, there was no drink as well. Just as he had promised not to take a gun, but broken the oath by Steve. Now there in the tomb had vowed not to get lost. To live up to Steve's sacrifice, even if he had no intention. He had vowed to honor the memory of the one he had shared so many nights with. To the one he still loved, and he would probably spend the rest of his life loving. Even if in secrecy, even if only he knew now.

He looked at the tombstone.

  


Steve Rogers

Bruce Banner

Tony Stark

1872

 

People did not understand, and maybe they thought it was just a mistake. But Tony had not been wrong, after all, it was he who had carved the stone. He had actually died that day along with Steve. Only an armor had remained in its place. The armor of an avenger.


End file.
